Ham, jam and a thousand pieces
by Giraffes Sent Me
Summary: John Watson is a broken man. He has buried both Sherlock and Mary within 3 months of each other. But then Sherlock comes back and wants John and Hamish to move in with him at Baker St. Can John finally start to pick up the thousand pieces of his broken heart? [There is a Hamish. There will be Johnlock. Be warned.]
1. Ch 1 - Back at Baker St

A/N: This story turned out to be a bit AU. This was not my intention when I started writing it in December 2011. Back then I had no idea that Gatiss and Moffat would throw Sherlock from a roof in season 2. Therefore I invented my own version of the Reichenbach Falls. As it is now this story is stuck somewhere between canon and the BBC's version of Sherlock's hiatus. I apologize for any inconvenience this might cause, and hope that the story is readable despite this flaw.

Rating: M for strong language and some adult angst.

Disclaimer: I do not own, therefore I do not profit.

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**Back at Baker Street**

John Watson looked up at the windows of 221B Baker Street. He sighed a sigh so deep that not even he himself could identify the many levels of it. The early morning light made the bricks of his old home glow with dull gold. Or was it his new home now? Whatever. _This temporary shelter_, he thought to himself. He sighed again. He had never thought that he would return like this. At some level he was not _supposed_ to return like this. He took a small step to the right to allow one of the hired hands to pass him, carrying a box of clothes.

They had moved all of the storage stuff in yesterday. They had nearly filled 221C with things like winter coats, redundant furniture and boxes of nostalgia. The boxes carried from the white van today held small, personal items that they would need up in the flat. All the little stuff that made the days normal. As if anything would ever be normal again, he thought bitterly.

When he had left Baker Street a little more than three years previously, he never thought that he would come back to live here ever again. To stay for a few days, perhaps, but never to return with two vans worth of boxes, plus a toddler. He hoisted his son a bit higher on his hip. Little Hamish was half asleep and not resisting the shift, but the two year-old was beginning to get heavy. With his free hand John waved a short greeting to the hired men before they got into the van and drove off. He watched the car as it turned the corner. It was only him and Hamish left on the pavement now. Traffic caused a constant noise in the background, a few pigeons cooed from a nearby fence. Yet John Watson felt very very lonely when he hugged his son closer and went up to the front door of his temporary shelter.


	2. Ch 2 - A case of love

**A case of love**

It had probably been very unprofessional of him to get involved with a client, but he had not been able to help himself. As soon as Mary Morstan walked into the living room of 221B Baker Street, John Watson was smitten. He had seen that petite woman in her dove grey suit, looked at those large blue eyes and listened to the horrible tale she had to tell them – and all he could think about was that he was more in love than he had been since the age of 12. As soon as the case was solved he wasted no time at all before asking her for a date. It was a whirlwind romance, no use denying that. On the other hand did John not see the point in dragging things on. He was over forty years old and he had found the perfect woman, so why wait? Within a year from that first meeting in the living room, they were married, redecorating a flat and expecting their first child. John had never been happier.

Sherlock Holmes had been uncharacteristically quiet and understanding during all this. He had not crashed in on their dates; he had not called or texted John to distract him while he was with Mary; he had not even thrown a tantrum when John told him that he would move in with his fiancée. Truth was that Sherlock liked Mary. She was softspoken, kind and clearly very intelligent. John's former flatmate and new wife did not just tolerate each other; they were actually enjoying each other's company. Sherlock would often come over for tea or Sunday dinner and it would be like the three of them had always belonged together. Whenever Mary needed to go away on a lecture tour, or visit her sick Granny in Brighton, she would always call Sherlock with an amused half-smile and ask him if he could take care of John for a couple of days. It was like she was calling in the babysitter, and John used to smile and shake his head. They both appreciated the irony of Sherlock as babysitter, since they all knew that it was usually John that took care of him.

Not once did John hear Sherlock call Mary an idiot.

This extraordinary woman even managed to charm Mycroft. John could still vividly remember that first Boxing Day-dinner in their new flat, when the Holmes brothers came to visit. Mary and Mycroft had spent a good hour at the kitchen table, heads pressed together, discussing something that for some reason or another demanded two pens, a pad of paper and quite a lot of laughter. He and Sherlock had just exchanged a bemused look, and left them to it, retreating to the living room sofa and reruns of Dr Who.

It was safe to say that Mycroft adored Mary.

And then came the pregnancy. It would have been marvellous if it was not for the fact that Mary fell ill. She got a mild case of diabetes that grew worse as the months progressed. She tried to keep her spirits up and go on living as usual, but it was evident to all who knew her that she was indeed very ill. John had never been so frustrated in his life. What was the use of being a doctor if you could not do anything to stop this thing that was happening to your own wife? He knew that he was irrational, but he could not help it – he was too frustrated to yield to logic. It was so _unfair_ that his wife would fall ill. Modern pregnancies were not supposed to happen like this. Not like this, not now, not in London. Not in a time and age when people talked about "getting a child", like you could just pick them off the shelf in M&S.

Things looked brighter as soon as Hamish was born. The child was healthy and impressively strong. Mary got better by the day, and that dreadful time when she walked around ashen-faced seemed further and further away. For a year they were a happy family. John could not think about that time anymore. He did not allow himself to think about it, because those little fragments that were left of his heart hurt too much. A little after Hamish's first birthday Mary relapsed. They got her treatment of course, but it did not help. She got worse so quick that you could practically see her deteriorate. They had tried everything. Mycroft had everything organized for a treatment in an American specialized hospital, but she was too weak to travel. Then came the massive kidney failure, the panic and the week of no sleep. John did not know how many days he had spent listening to beeping machines while trying to will his wife back to life. Even if he, Mycroft, Mike Stanford and a dozen specialists refused to see the game lost, Mary's body had given up a month before. She died.

Mary Morstan died and John and Hamish Watson were alone in the world.

This was three months ago. For three months John Watson sat in his flat, feeling the walls close in on him, while he watched his son play. He did not know if he should envy or pity his son. Envy him because he was too young to understand what had happened, and therefore too young to feel grief; or pity that Hamish would never know this wonderful woman that was once part of his life.

John Watson's heart imploded, exploded and imploded again. The sorry pieces that were left had very little energy left to stir even when shaken.


	3. Ch 3 - Flats remembered

**Flats remembered**

It was Sherlock's idea that he should move back to Baker Street. Every inch of John's own flat was infused with Mary and that proximity to all the memories was clearly suffocating him. That flat was not a home anymore, it was a cage made up of too strong feelings. Even Sherlock was sensitive enough to see this.

Still, the first time Sherlock suggested that he'd move back to Baker Street, John refused point blank. It was an automatic response not based on any real consideration. This flat was his stronghold now, a way to be close to the existence ha had had with Mary. His refusal shot out of his mouth too fast, too loudly. If he had looked up he would have seen that Sherlock looked stumped, but he didn't look up. Instead he kept staring into his tea and stirring it as if his life depended on the constant swirling of milk.

Even after a few weeks, a renewed offer and some actual contemplation on the advantages, John did not like the idea much. They both knew that the layout of 221B Baker Street comprised of only two bedrooms. Aside from his reluctance to leave Mary's flat, John was not too keen on sharing a bedroom with a toddler. Sherlock had pointed out that it was a temporary solution, something to help until John had regained his footing. He had even volunteered to move his bedroom down to 221C, as long as he could do his experiments up in the brighter rooms of 221B. John had refused this. It was not the prospect of having the flat turned into a laboratory (again) that made him say no, it was the chilling aspect of having a 221B without Sherlock in it. He knew exactly how that felt, and he never wanted to experience that feeling again. The thought of Sherlock going about his business as usual in 221B was the one steady point John had in his life at the moment. He needed that insurance much more than he needed a bedroom of his own.

Three months before Mary's death, Sherlock had visited John late one evening. He had looked dishevelled - his hair a mess, eyes darting nervously from side to side, hands beating out staccato rhythms on his knees. Mary had been in hospital and John was physically and emotionally exhausted after a long day. The sight of his friend in this state was the last thing he needed. Instead of offering some kind of comfort he had been short with his best friend, short on the verge of rude. He had not listened carefully enough when Sherlock asked him – no, nearly begged him – to accompany him on a case in Switzerland. The question was answered with an outburst of anger. How could Sherlock ever ask him to leave Mary when she was this ill? Had the man no heart at all? Was he a _machine_? It turned into a nasty argument. (If you can call it an argument when it is only one part doing the shouting and the other part is just sitting there like a thrown-away ragdoll.) In the end, John had nearly kicked Sherlock out.

Sherlock had gone to Switzerland on his own – and gotten himself killed. It had looked for all the world like an unfortunate accident, but John and Mycroft knew better. Sherlock's death was the doing of James Moriarty. They knew this because a note had been posted to John. A note in Sherlock's handwriting explaining how he would be killed, and signed _Very sincerely yours_. If Mary and Hamish had not needed him so much, John would have curled up on himself and cried himself senseless. The amount of guilt he felt was enough crush his little world.

The memorial service was just a hazy blur in John's mind. Mary had been well enough to attend. She and mrs Hudson had steadied each other, lending each other handkerchiefs when eyes overflowed. John had not cried. He had not been physically able to. He and Mycroft had stood there side by side like two marble pillars while the tides of grief tugged around them.

For three months John had avoided Baker Street. He had even avoided Mycroft, restricting their communications to subjects concerning Mary. He had concentrated on breathing and keeping Hamish and Mary alive. His own life was put on hold for the foreseeable future.

And then Mary died. It was just Hamish and John now. Lost without a mother, lost without a wife, lost without a detective.

Apart from little Hamish John Watson was alone.

_Physically_ that was not true. The week after Mary's death lots of people came to see him. There were family and friends from his old life, family and friends from his new life – although everything seemed like an old life now. Dozens of humans parading through his and Hamish life. John went through the motions: nodding, hugging, answering questions, drinking endless cups of tea. None of it mattered. The two persons (aside from Hamish, of course) that he really wanted to see, were not there and never would be again.


	4. Ch 4 - Light in a darkened room

**Light in a darkened room**

Two nights after Mary's funeral John was actually, physically alone. He had put Hamish to bed, and was sitting at his desk with a cup of cold tea between his elbows. He was supposed to go through some important papers, but as soon as he had sat down he had put his head in his hands and suddenly it was impossible to focus on anything. Sitting in the little pool of light provided by the desk lamp, lost in the pressing dark of the unlit flat he gave in to his despair.

Had he not been so devastated he would have jumped three feet when the doorbell rang. As it was now, he merely let out a guttural sound of displeasure. He had absolutely no intention of opening the door, not at this time of night; not at this point in his misery. The doorbell rang again, more insistent this time. He did not even bother to raise his head from his hands. Whoever was out there be damned. "Just leave me alone", he whispered. The third ring was left mainly unnoticed.

For three minutes nothing happened. Then his mobile phone lit up and let out a faint chirp. The blue light from the display was disproportionally bright in the darkened room. The phone was carelessly tossed onto the table just a few inches from his left elbow. Even in this stricken state he could not avoid seeing the letters on the lit-up screen: 'Incoming message' and then a row of numbers he did not recognise. He never knew why he picked up that mobile and clicked forward to the new message. It was an irrational thing to do. He did not want to see anyone, he did not want to talk to anyone, he sure as Hell did not want to text anyone – yet he picked up that mobile phone and read the incoming message from an unknown number.

You are not asleep.  
Let me in.  
SH

John Watson had stared at the message for a minute when he realized that his heart stood still. He had failed to breath since pushing the OK-button. What kind of a sick bastard had sent such a message!? He felt his anger rise. He would personally kill that twisted devil for this tasteless not-quite-a-joke! With a rush of adrenaline he stood up, marched to the front door and threw it open. Out on the landing – looking ill and even thinner than usual – stood Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock did not even flinch at the sudden and violent opening of the door. He looked very solemn.  
"I heard about Mary", he said quietly.

John stared at him for a heartbeat. Two heartbeats. Three heartbeats. Then he took two steps backwards and fainted.

When he came to again, he was laying on the sofa with his feet propped up on a cushion. Sherlock was leaning over him with a glass of water in his hand.  
"John?" he said, looking worried.  
John grabbed him by the wrist, causing him to spill most of the water.  
"Sherlock?" he whispered "Is that you, or am I hallucinating?"  
Judging by the very sinewy and very dense wrist caught between his fingers, this person in front of him was an unusually solid version of a hallucination. Nevertheless, this was impossible. Sherlock was dead. He had been killed by Moriarty. True, the body was never found, but here had been witnesses that had seen the horrible accident. No man could have survived that. An hallucination was a more logical explanation than an alive Sherlock standing in his living room.  
"I am no ghost, John" said the living man with a fleeting smile.  
With a guttural cry John sat bolt upright and threw his arms around Sherlock, embracing him until all their ribs were in danger of snapping. He held on like he had never hold on to anything in his life before. The detective wrapped his long, thin arms around him and crushed him right back. For eons they held each other like that. For eons John's brain did not think of anything except the pure happiness of having this person in his reality again.

When the eon was over John pushed Sherlock from him, causing him to stumble backwards. Sherlock nearly lost his footing and fell into a corner of the sofa. He had merely landed when John punched him hard in the face.  
"Where the FUCK have you been?" John cried, "You made me think that you were dead! You fucking bastard! You fucking fucking bastard! How could you DO this to me?"  
Sherlock quietly caught his flaying arms and gathered him in a new embrace, letting John cry against his shoulder. John clung onto him, burying his fingers in a new, unfamiliar coat and crying all his tears into the nape of Sherlock's neck. Sherlock traced soothing circles on his back, whispering soft words filled with pain.  
"I am so sorry, John. I am so sorry about Mary, I am so sorry about everything."

They sat like that until John was drained of tears. Then they went to check on Hamish. The boy was fast asleep, sprawled out in his pea green pyjama, a faint blush to his cheeks. Sherlock adjusted his blanket with a surprisingly tender movement.  
"Is he good?" he whispered.  
"He's young," John answered.  
They spent the rest of the night in the kitchen, talking. Sherlock explained about Moriarty and the necessity of a faked death to throw the criminal off the trail; the necessity of keeping Watsons and everyone he cared about safe through ignorance. John explained about Mary and his insufferable loss. When the sun rose they went to sleep for a couple of hours. Sherlock stretched out on the sofa; John sitting in a chair nearby, too afraid to leave the room since Sherlock might be gone when he woke up again.

Sherlock was not gone when John woke up. In fact he did not leave the flat for a week. Hamish was delighted. The little boy sat with his toys at Sherlock's feet, quietly babbling to himself and playing with his building blocks while the detective worked. Sherlock spent the week mostly on the phone, plotting with Lestrade on how to tear down the last remains of Moriarty's empire. Mycroft would pop by at least once every day, and the brothers would huddle together over heaps of classified papers. At first John was furious about the obvious fact that Mycroft had known about Sherlock's faked death before himself, but that soon drained away. He was too mentally exhausted to care for very long. He provided them with food and tea at regular intervals but the rest of the time he kept to his study.

All the important meetings took place in Hamish's room, where the windows were covered in sun film that prevented anyone to see into the room from the outside. They put the kitchen table and some chairs in the middle of the space, but other than that it was still Hamish's working play pen. The rest of the flat was left to John and his thoughts.

In the evenings John and Sherlock would sit shoulder to shoulder on the sofa, each too exhausted by his own daily labour to talk. Truth be told, they did not need to talk, it was enough just to sit there.

When the week was over, so was Moriarty's remaining legacy. The plans made in the play pen wiped the slate clean concerning this Napoleon of crime. Sherlock went back to Baker Street and started to reinstate his life. John went back to grieving.


	5. Ch 5 - Coming back

**Coming back**

In all fairness it must be told that everyone in John's social network (including Harry) behaved brilliantly through this whole ordeal. They had offered a million little services based on love and loyalty ever since Mary fell ill. The simplest, and yet perhaps the most important service, was made by one Sherlock Holmes when he insisted that John and Hamish should pack up their things and squeeze into the old bachelor pad. Despite John's initial refusal and excuses based on fatigue, here he was now, carrying his son up the seventeen steps to the old living room.

Four months and eleven days after John Watson became a widower, his flat was sold, Mary's few belongings were packed away in boxes stashed in 221C Baker Street, and John and Hamish moved in with Sherlock.

The previous day had been something of a circus, with hired hands, Harry, Clara, Sherlock, mrs Hudson and even Mycroft carrying boxes; organizing personal affects; providing food; making the flat secure for children; and carrying furniture up and down the narrow stairs. Anthea had stood in the middle of it all, waving her Blackberry as a magic wand. Hamish had been passed from arm to arm, staring at the commotion while thoughtfully sucking his soother. Finally he had passed out in a corner of the living room, clutching Mycroft's umbrella in a chubby hand.

Things were much calmer today. When the hired hands had driven away, the house was left to the three boys. Even mrs Hudson stayed at her bridge club, only too aware that John probably needed some personal space while he took the first steps into his remodelled life. John was ever so grateful for this. He was too filled with emotions and thoughts while walking up the stairs, to be able to talk to anyone - no matter how friendly they were.

He felt guilty. Guilty for carrying on with his life while Mary was dead. Guilty for being a doctor and not being able to save his own wife. Guilty for making his wife pregnant, when the pregnancy set off the diabetes. Guilty for feeling relief at being back at Baker Street. In his own mind he was guilty enough to be shot at sunrise. The world was a haze made up of bad conscience.

Sherlock waited for him in the living room, busy unpacking a few of Hamish's toys and putting them on the soft carpet in the corner. He looked up when the two Watsons entered, a strange expression fleeting over his face.  
"Welcome...home", he said quietly while standing up and dragging his fingers through his hair, making the dark curls stand on end.  
John could just nod in acknowledgment. He passed Hamish to his new flatmate and took his time unzipping his jacket and hanging it up on his old hook. He looked everywhere but at Sherlock while he crossed the room and took up position by the window, staring out at the quiet Sunday street. Behind him did Sherlock release Hamish from his jacket and shoes and settled the boy down on the sofa.

A few minutes passed before the detective came up behind him and placed a hand on his shoulder.  
"Why don't you go get some rest?" Sherlock suggested.  
John nodded curtly. He shot a short glance at Sherlock's hand resting on his shoulder. It was such an unfamiliar sort of feeling. He was not sure when Sherlock had started touching other people, other than to manhandle them. It probably started with Hamish. A lot of things started with Hamish.

The boy and the consulting detective had got on famously since the first time they met. Hamish had been six days old when Mary had placed him in Sherlock's arms. John had expected the detective to back away, frightened by the mere sight of a baby. John knew for a fact that noisy, chaotic and sticky children scared the living daylight out of the sociopathic genius. But here he was, cradling the infant in his arms without any hesitation at all. Hamish and Sherlock had just stared at each other, like they were measuring each other up, and then they seemed to have reached some sort of settlement.  
"Your eyes, Mary" Sherlock had said.  
From that moment onwards, Hamish seemed to be the exception to a lot of things that John thought he knew about his former flatmate. He was still amazed every time he remembered the milky vomit that spread over Sherlock's £300 suit jacket, and the detective's total lack of reaction.  
"You jacket..." John had whispered in horror.  
"Don't worry, John. It needed cleaning anyway. Still some of that blood from last week left on the cuff", Sherlock had answered.  
This had caused John to scowl at him, but Mary had laughed so whole-heartedly that it was hard to stay irritated for very long.

Apart from vomiting all over hideously expensive suits, Hamish was also allowed to hug Sherlock. The boy was good natured in the extreme, and was very generous with his embraces. He never passed an opportunity to pat those he loved with those sticky baby hands of his. The boy was all smiles and cuddles. The extraordinary thing was that Sherlock always put up with it, without ever commenting on it. He could lie on the floor, thoughtfully reading a gruesome police report, while Hamish practically abused his dark curls - and never even flinch at the rough love he was subjected to. Hamish hugged Sherlock, and Sherlock hugged back. As if this newfound ability to touch other people had grown on him, the detective was now also able to touch other acquaintances. This was still a confusing concept for John. During the six years he had known Sherlock, the only person his flatmate did not hesitate to show any physical affection to was mrs Hudson.

The first time Sherlock Holmes hugged John Watson was in the hospital, after they learned that Mary was ill again. They both needed it at the time. It was brief but very comforting. Since then Sherlock had hugged John five times, squeezed his shoulder eight times and pressed his hand three times. Every single time had been on occasions when they were under severe mental stress. John had embraced Sherlock two times, both during that night when he came back from the dead. These occurrences were still so exotic that a small part of John's brain was left marvelling about them, no matter what else his thoughts were occupied with at the moment.

Standing at the familiar old window in this temporary shelter he gazed in confusion at his flatmate's hand before nodding again.  
"Yes. Rest sounds good", he said weakly and staggered towards the sofa and his sleeping son.  
"I'll take care of Ham. Have a proper sleep", Sherlock interrupted.  
John nodded again, too numb to do anything else.

He walked down the corridor to his new room without thinking at all. They had swopped bedrooms the day before. John's old room was the slightly smaller of the two and placed up another flight of stairs. Sherlock had insisted that his own room would suit John and Hamish better, and the others that were present had agreed. It was an odd feeling, walking into Sherlock's old room and settling on the unmade bed. John had very rarely been in here the last time he lived in Baker Street. Back then it had been unbelievably tidy and furnished with old, expensive looking furniture. Since of yesterday Anthea had had it redecorated with light sunny wallpapers and white, crisp curtains. A giant lamp shaped like a dandelion hung from the ceiling. His and Hamish's practical IKEA furniture were installed but not yet properly put into place, awaiting the walls to dry properly. Their duvets and pillows were piled on the beds, stripped off their covers. They would need to put another hour's work into this room before it would look homely enough to live in. John did not care. He took a duvet and a pillow and curled up on his bed, trying to shut out the cold air and the chaos around him.

He worked his way through a pile of thoughts; he grieved; he wept and finally he fell asleep.

It was a grumbling stomach that woke him up. The room was almost dark around him. He fumbled in the dusk and found the light switch on the nearest table lamp. Another fumbling resulted in him finding his alarm clock in the topmost box. It was almost 5:30. He had slept for six and a half hours straight. He could not remember the last time that had happened - probably not since Mary got ill the first time. Even when she was fine again, Hamish would wake them up at regular intervals just like babies are prone to do. As a dad, he had never slept for more than five hours at the most. He groaned a little at the thought of Sherlock being left with Hamish for more than six hours. Why had not the detective woken him up?

He visited the bathroom, splashing his face with cold water and trying to erase the imprints of pillow left in his hair. The bathroom was spotless thanks to mrs Hudson's efforts the day before. The mirror was squeaky clean and showed him a face that could be a hundred years old. At least some of the grey shadows under his eyes had been wiped away by the unexpected sleep marathon. He had not looked at himself properly for months and it felt strange doing it now. He needed shaving. His stomach grumbled again and snatched him out of his facial study. Back to reality, back to the matters at hand.

John found his son and his flatmate under the kitchen table, where they played some sort of nonsense game with half a dozen inflated latex gloves. Hamish was giggling madly. Sherlock looked ridiculous folded in under the table, dressed in suit pants and an impeccable white shirt. When John entered the kitchen both of the curly boys looked up, still smiling.  
"Dadda!" Ham squealed in joy, "Look! Henz!"  
"As in poultry, not as in appendages with fingers", Sherlock clarified and tried to regain something of his dignity while crawling out from under the table.  
If he had not caught himself doing this forbidden thing, John would have smiled. Something stirred in his broken chest and it terrified him.


	6. Ch 6 - Oddly familiar

The first week back at Baker St was… odd. After unpacking the last of their stuff, John spend almost all of Monday strolling around the old place, trying to reclaim the space. At a first glance very little seemed to had changed since he moved out. Still, he touched almost every single detail in the cluttered living quarters – moving them a fraction to the left or to the right, trying to make everything look exactly like it ought to look.

Of course, some things were new. New memorabilia from cases had added to the old ones; little knickknacks had been replaced or replenished; there were pictures of the Watsons scattered along the mantelpiece (sent by Mary, no doubt put there by mrs Hudson); new books and papers were added to the piles; new CDs were in the rack. Sherlock had had to replace the old kitchen table since the old one was turned into sooty smithereens after an unfortunate accident involving industrial grade chemicals. The accident had also resulted in the kitchen ceiling getting covered in fire proof tiles, in order to keep future risks of catastrophes to the bare minimum. (John had never understood how mrs Hudson managed to sleep at night, knowing what her tenants were probably up to even in the wee hours. He did fully understand her need for the herbal soothers, though.)

The tiles in the kitchen ceiling was only one of many new features that could hardly be seen – indeed, many features were not meant to be seen. Mycroft had jokingly referred to the place as "Baker Street 2.1". It was not far from the truth. They had all recognised that a new threat hung over them all if John and Ham were to move in to Baker St with Sherlock. Moriarty had already tried to burn Sherlock's heart once and very nearly succeeded. There were no guarantees that no other fiend would not try the same thing. Sherlock was famous now, since coming back from the dead and gaining a huge media coverage. To piss off criminals with contacts in scary places, while living with a toddler held risks that John hoped that he should not ever have to think about. However, these were exactly the things that people like Mycroft thought about the whole time. Ergo: before John and Hamish could move in, the Holmes turned the place into a veritable fort. Mrs Hudson had not complained: she did not have to pay for anything and her property was probably the safest place an old lady could be in, outside of Buckingham Palace. John did a mental list over things he knew had been installed. He had no doubt that there were other things he did not know about.

Doors – safety doors made to look like the old ones. Fire proof, bullet proof.  
Door jambs – reinforced.  
Windows – bullet proof, one way. No one could look into their rooms from the outside.  
Sprinklers – in all rooms.  
Motion sensors – around windows. Could be activated in hallways and living room as well.  
Surveillance cameras – in the hallways and in the back yard.  
Built in safe – both in John's and Sherlock's rooms.  
Alarms – a plethora.

On top of that, Anthea had done thorough research on how to turn a home child friendly. She might have gone a bit over the top in this respect, before mrs Hudson kindly reminded her that this was not a military operation, just a place for a little boy to live in. John had already heard Sherlock swear in three different languages over the damn nuisance that were the new gates to the stairwell and the hooks that prevented doors and drawers in the kitchen to open unless using the right trick.

While doing all these instalments one of the workers had thoughtfully tapped the floor in the upstairs bedroom, and lifted a plank to look at the non-existing insulation. Sherlock had already made it clear that he intended to move his bedroom upstairs. All of Mycroft's crew knew Sherlock, of course, and they knew that he was noisy. After a brief discussion the floor had been lifted, heavy duty sound proofing insulation had been put in and the floor replaced. Now Sherlock could pace around and play the violin as much as he pleased, but the Watsons sleeping in the bedroom downstairs would not hear a thing.

John felt a pang of guilt for Sherlock. It was the detective's suggestion that the Watsons move in, but it was not without some cuts into his own personal comforts. Being sent upstairs into a sound proof room was not the only amendment he had been forced to do. All of his lab equipment had been moved down into 221C. Half of the previously unused basement flat had been turned into a storage for John's things; the other half was now Sherlock's lab. It was fully equipped and much better than the ad hoc thing he had always put up in the kitchen, but it was still housed in a damp cellar. John had banned him in no uncertain terms from keeping any "unsuitable" items in the kitchen fridge. He was also prohibited from using any dangerous, corrosive or flammable chemicals in the kitchen or the bathroom. They had talked at length about what was suitable behaviour when living with a toddler, and what was the kind of behaviour that would have John punching him in the face. That lecture had probably not been necessary, but John had given it anyway to calm his own mind.

Not that it would make much difference, John though with a sigh. He had not seen his flatmate since they had gone to their respective beds on Sunday. Truth is, he had not seen anyone but Hamish all week. This was probably his friend's attempt to give him some space, but he felt lonely instead of relieved. It was like being trapped in some kind of twilight zone: a flat that used to be noisy, unkept and full of detective was now silent, squeaky clean and uncomfortably empty.

John prodded a piece of case-related memorabilia (not a case he had been involved in), sighed and went over to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. There was a new board mounted on the wall next to the door. It used to be Mary's notice board. They had noted all their times and commitments on that board, to keep check of activities and each other. The last thing John had noted on it back then was "Tuesday: hospital". That note had been on the board when they took it down. When John hung it on the wall at Baker St that old note had been a bit smudged but it had still been there with all the painful memories that was connected to it. Sherlock had wiped it clean before John had time to react. Then he had grabbed a piece of chalk and marked the left side of the board with "Sherlock", "John" and "Hamish" in his neat script. John had started at him, mouth open in astonishment.  
"That was what it is for, right?" Sherlock asked impatiently.  
"Yes, yes...But..." John stumbled.  
"But what? No! Hamish don't do that!"  
The detective had been off to stop Hamish from using Mycroft's umbrella as a poker and John had stood frozen to the spot, staring at the board. Oh well, Sherlock was right. This was what it was for.

Since then the board had held a single word next to Sherlock's name: "Yard". The rest of the board was black and empty. John leaned against the counter, sipping his tea and looking at the empty board. This was good, he told himself, this was all like it should be. John was on leave from work until the new year. Hamish was home with him. Sherlock had an almost-normal-job at the NSY, working as a consultant and training new recruits. The board should not make him sad. Yet it did.

The memory of how Sherlock and himself became "almost proper consultants" (Lestrade's words) still made John smile a lopsided and reluctant smile. It had been shortly after John and Mary's wedding. The scandal that dragged Sherlock's name in the dirt and made John punch Lestrade's boss in the nose had meant that Sherlock had been doing cases that almost exclusively came from the blog. The Yard had not dared to touch him, even using a very long stick. In the end Lestrade, Dimmock and a few of the other detective inspectors at the Yard had realized that they really missed the mad genius. Somehow that had managed to convince the powers that be (perhaps with the help of a certain Mycroft Holmes) that Sherlock would go through proper training and tests and become an authorized consultant. John was still impressed that Lestrade had been brave enough to deliver this piece of news to Sherlock himself. "Scathing", "vitriol" and "acid" had all been words used when Greg described the conversation to John later that day. Despite this, Sherlock had eventually accepted the offer on the condition that John was to undergo the same thing.

Mary had been very amused when she packed lunch boxes for them and waved them off to a training facility in Milton Keynes. It had been like some sort of absurd version of uni. They had shared a room at the facility and spent their evenings stuck to boring text books. The days had been spent at lectures, doing psychological evaluations and practising shooting. In the end they had to sit an exam. John had no idea how they had managed to pass the tests and evaluations. The test at the shooting range had been laughable. Of course they had passed with flying colours, even though Sherlock gave the instructor enough lip to have them expelled. It was, however, a mystery how a reckless ex-junkie with a history of violence and an ex-army doctor diagnosed with PSD could ever be deemed suitable to carry guns around crime scenes. Mycroft must have been the only possible answer to that conundrum.

No matter how it had happen, here they were now. Sherlock worked almost exclusively for the Yard - even instructing new detectives that could stand him for more than a day. And John... Well, John drank tea and watched his son. He sighed again. Odd. The world had turned odd.


End file.
